Tumble water falling souls and various
threads of gossamer chants
The monks do and waste their time not
thinking of their Tools
Cloistered and hiding away from societal
yearning nothing but isolation
Dark clothes and holy crosses the only
phallus of dark cruel and cold
The angel is weeping the salt of Lot but
has no sins perched on stone
With gargoyle claw and curv’d tusk lying
still with the dusk
Eyes closed in the pretense of what’s on
the other side
Sodom and Gomorrah paid with the price of
God’s pride
It was his creation melded in the form he
thought true
And blessed to speak in tongues of purple
rage and vehement spit
Cast the archangel from heavenly spires
into his own glowing pit
And gave the word of ten to bind them to
the rock from which they sprang
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